


Five Valentines, Torchwood style

by raven_lore



Category: Torchwood
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-15
Updated: 2009-11-15
Packaged: 2017-10-02 21:14:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raven_lore/pseuds/raven_lore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>These are not happy. And unbetaed. And really short.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Five Valentines, Torchwood style

**Author's Note:**

> These are not happy. And unbetaed. And really short.

1\. The envelope is made of thick paper, the color of cream. There's no name, address or any other writing on it. Toshiko hadn't wanted to risk him going through her stuff and finding it. She hadn't wanted him to know. Still, she'd bought it thinking of him, of how the red, crispy card inside reminded her of his being so much more vulnerable behind that armor he's always wearing. It seemed fitting. She will just hand it to him at the right moment, sometime through the day. But then the alarm goes off and she breathes a little easier.

2\. It's a scene out of a romance: the table, the candles, the red roses. Soft music is filling the room as Rhys smiles contented, a glass of red wine in his hand. He walks back towards the oven to check on the dinner. The timer marks thirtytwo minutes to go. Gwen will be back home in thirty. It will be just perfect.

Gwen walks through the door and into the apartment, body aching all over, mind firmly set on a bath and her bed, in which order she really doesn't care, and then she sees it: the table, the burned out candles, the withered roses. Valentine's Day. For a moment she can't even remember how much time has passed, how many days ago she was supposed to come home. Three. She's three days late and if she can't find her voice to call out for Rhys, it doesn't really matter. The apartment is empty anyway.

3\. It was a beautiful picture. They looked happy in it. They looked in love. Owen snorts as he tears away another strip, another piece of himself clad in the dark tuxedo. He lets it go and watches it fly away. When he loses sight of it into the darkness that surrounds the city below, he tears away one more piece. In a few minutes her face is all that is left in his hand. For a moment he can't let go. Then Diane is flying away from him once more, carried by the wind. He turns and walks back to his car, his muttered 'Happy Valentine, love' nothing more than a whisper.

4\. He leaves the flower on the floor. He couldn't make it to the cemetery, not with all the emergencies and, anyway, this is more proper. This was the last place where she'd been herself, the last place where he'd watched into her eyes and seen his love, his Lisa. A part of him still feels her presence here, trapped in the darkness, scared, alone. He closes his eyes, blocking out the sight of the single red rose on the concrete floor, and turns his back on it. But as he walks away, he can still see it, he can still feel her.

5\. The card is old and worn, the writing faded, and still he can read it as clearly as when he bought it sixty years ago. 'My Forever Valentine'. Slowly he closes the card and puts it away. Maybe next year.


End file.
